


No Need to Be Alone

by Anonymous



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Absent Parents, Backstory, Canonical Character Death, Family, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Percival's POV, Pre-Canon, Uncle-Niece Relationship, percival is roxy's uncle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:54:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4705106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-movie Percival and Roxy bonding; after realising that Roxy isn’t all that terrible now that she’s a teenager, Percival lets her into his life until he can’t imagine his world without her. Focuses on Percival's life through connecting with Roxy, moving in together, Percival falling in love with James, and what leads to Roxy being his proposal for Lancelot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Need to Be Alone

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I went with Alistair for Percival’s real name, because it’s such a great name that it was worth stealing. James’s death happens in this story as in canon, but offscreen.

Alistair knew his niece in sort of abstract terms, until she turned twelve and was sent to school in London. She’d been the rapidly-growing baby at Christmases and the odd birthday ‘do, a little girl who was not particularly wanted by her parents, because, politely, Roxanne Morton was a change of life baby. She’d been a surprise to everyone, especially her parents, who made all the right motions, loved her very much, but found it more convenient if she was quietly occupied with the au pair rather than bothering the adults at table.

She had little impact on Alistair’s life, until she was suspended from school for fighting. His sister — cruising in the Caribbean — called him. 

“Darling, I will owe you.” 

As it happened, he’d broken his wrist punching through a window in Zagreb, so he was free. He picked up the sulky, sullen little girl, listened to the explanation as to why the family were terribly lucky that she wasn’t being expelled, nodded in all the right places, was extremely charming, and then took Roxanne home with him for the two weeks of her suspension. 

“Mother says she’s going to send me to boarding school in Australia if I keep it up,” she said, slouched in the front seat of his car. 

“Why did you hit him?” asked Alistair, in return. 

“He had photos of Katie that he was going to send to his disgusting friends,” she said, looking at him as if daring to say something. “So I smashed his phone and took the SIM card. Couldn’t tell Miss, because they’d expel Katie if it got around.” 

“How very backward of them,” he said.

“I told him I’d chop off his privates if he ever threatened a girl like that again.” 

Alistair winced. “Goodness.” Apparently fourteen year olds were a lot more savvy and tougher than he’d ever expected them to be. “Perhaps Australia would be a welcome relief, if school here is like that.” 

“I’ve never been to Australia. I hear it’s hot. Lots of poisonous things.” 

“Would you like to?” he found himself asking. 

“Would I like to what?” 

“Go to Australia. For a holiday, not for school.” 

This, at least, made her switch out her sulky expression for something else. “Are you mad?” 

“Why not?” he asked. “I’m on desk work until my wrist heals, you’re suspended from school; better that we drive each other mad in Australia than in my flat.” 

“I’m not going home?” 

“Your mother and father are still in Kingston.” 

“Oh,” said Roxanne, and the surly expression was back. “Whatever you like.” 

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll call work, we’ll get Agatha to send your passport down, and we’ll go.” 

“I don’t even have any clothes for Australia.” 

“We’ll make it work,” he said. “Who knows, you might find a boarding school that you like?” 

She didn’t speak to him for the rest of the ride back to his flat, which was actually one of the rather nice mews that Kingsman owned; she played snake on her phone instead, getting her own bag from the boot of the car when they got there, settling into Alistair’s guest room and shutting the door. 

“Do you have any requests for dinner?” he asked, through the wood. 

“Fuck off, Uncle Alistair.” 

“Eloquently put,” he said. “It’ll be at seven. There’s internet on the computer in your room; use the “Guest” logon.” 

He went downstairs, and called the Morton’s housekeeper, Agatha, for Roxanne’s passport and clothes suitable for travelling; then he called in to work. 

“Excellent,” said Merlin, when Alistair told him. “I’ve a small job for you to do in Sydney.” 

“I’ll be travelling with my niece.” 

“It’s a one night thing,” he said. “Sydney branch can look after her.” 

“If she gets hurt, her mother will—“ Alistair paused. Actually, her mother probably wouldn’t. She’d be peeved, yes, but protective? Not really; it was clear that she thought Roxanne was a poor second to her weak-chinned elder brother. 

“She won’t get hurt. I’ll give you some trackers to put on her,” said Merlin. “Sending through the files, and I’ll organise flights; tickets will come in early tomorrow. Got her passport?” 

“En route.” 

“Can she shoot?” 

“Passably, I believe.” 

“Good,” said Merlin. “Have a nice trip.” 

Alistair went upstairs when it got to seven; he’d cooked two steaks, leaving them to keep warm in the oven, because his niece was still in the spare room. 

“Come on,” he said, to the door. 

“I don’t want to,” said Roxanne. 

“Either you’re coming out, or I’m coming in.” 

“You _wouldn’t_.” She sounded a bit off. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

“Roxanne…” 

“Roxy. No-one calls me Roxanne, that’s a stupid name.” 

“Roxy. Are you all right?” 

“Fine.” 

“Then come downstairs and have something to eat.” 

She was silent for a few seconds, and then he heard the tell-tale sound of a sob. It was enough to spur him to action — he didn’t have to pick the locks in his own house, he had a thumbprint scanner that Merlin had installed — and the door sprang open, exposing his niece sitting on the bed, crying into her hands. 

“Roxy,” he said, his heart breaking for her. “What’s the matter?” 

“I rang Mum,” she said, and then broke into gulping sobs, hiccoughing instead of speaking. He sat beside her on the bed, and put an arm around her — he didn’t know her that well, but years of Christmases bred familiarity. She buried her face in his shoulder and he pulled her into a proper hug. 

“She doesn’t even w-w-want to c-come home.” 

Alistair seldom bothered getting angry, but he felt anger rise on Roxy’s behalf. He’d call Clara and ask her what the hell she was thinking — but he’d wait, he thought, until he and the girl were in New South Wales. 

“Hey,” he said. “Come on. You’ve had a rough day — you need to get some food into you. I always feel terrible when I haven’t eaten. And then after, you can work out where we’ll go in Australia.”

She sniffled. “That wasn’t a joke?” 

“I’ve called work, and it so happens that they want me to go to a meeting in Sydney, if I’m going to be there. Just one meeting, though; we’ll have the rest of the time as a holiday.” 

“You’re actually going to take me to Australia?” 

“Why should your parents have all the fun?” he asked. 

“But I’m skirting on the edges of being a disgrace to the family name.” 

“Then you’ll just have to try harder,” he said. “Can’t have a really good time without being completely disgraceful, can you?” She wiped her eyes. “All right. I’m famished, so even if you’re not coming downstairs, I’m going to go.” 

“‘M starving,” she admitted. “For serious, Australia?” 

“Australia,” he affirmed, and she squeezed him tightly before springing to her feet. 

_________

Australia was uneventful — he did the information exchange, showed off some of Merlin’s new gadgets to Station S, and then took Roxy to Bondi Beach, the Opera House, and hopped on a plane to Cairns to teach her to scuba dive at the Barrier Reef. The girl he returned to school at the end of her suspension was a little sunburnt and a lot happier than the girl who’d sobbed in his spare room on that first night — he was beginning to see the merits of having children, when they were old enough not to drip snot and shit on everything. 

They had found several acceptable boarding schools in Sydney — Roxy was reassured that even if her mother came good on the threat to send her to the other side of the world, she’d be all right. Alistair privately wondered if he would be able to get a temporary transfer to Station S if that were the case; a little extreme, perhaps, but the two weeks showed him something he had not previously considered. He was fond of his niece, far fonder than he was of his sister. 

Little by little, he began to find himself drawn into her life. It was easy, given that she was in London — she’d accepted his explanation that she couldn’t live with him because he was away too often — but it was very easy to go to dance recitals, polo matches, parent evenings. It was easy to accept her cuddling in close to him, easy to care for her, easy to have a tangible reason to save the world. It got to the stage where her teachers tried to call him Mr Morton, assuming that he was Roxy’s father; selfishly, he didn’t correct them, and he noted that Roxy didn’t, either. 

The best weekends were the ones where he wasn’t on mission and Roxy was allowed home from school. She’d insist on going on an adventure, and they’d take a mini break to Prague or somewhere equally pleasant, and Alistair, who’d always been a queer and solitary fish, would be dragged out shopping and to museums, to music festivals and attractions. Sometimes he’d bring business into the mix, but he tried not to after one memorable meeting with Galahad, who shot a spy in the gaming room of the hotel where he and Roxy were staying, tried to buy Roxy champagne even though she was sixteen, _sixteen, Galahad,_ and then proceeded to tell Roxy about Percival’s prowess as a hairdresser. 

Which was true — he’d learned to cut and style hair for deep undercover — but it led to Roxy slinking up to him, asking him who Percival was, and demanding he put her hair in a complex, braided chignon for going back to school. And it led to her asking him if he was gay and Percival was his boyfriend, which was territory he didn’t even want to get into with the young woman he thought of as a daughter, and Roxy was never, ever, _ever_ allowed to spend time with Kingsman agents again. 

____________

 

Only that didn’t really work out. She moved in with Alistair for university, despite his pleas that she’d be happier elsewhere — she countered with the fact that he was out of the country a lot for business, and so it would be like living alone, except she’d be looking after his place while he was away, and please, Uncle Alistair, please, London’s so expensive (never mind her parents’ fortune) and she’d be ever so quiet and he could practice his hairdressing on her and _please_. He caved disgracefully quickly, and on the condition that she take up shooting again and never, ever talk to his workmates.

Which was made moot when she was kidnapped. 

He was coming back in on the Kingsman underground from weapons testing when Merlin called him. “I want you to sit down,” he said, over the tinny glasses feed. “And I want you to listen to me. All right?” 

“All right,” said Alistair, because he trusted Merlin more than anyone else in the world. 

“Your niece has been kidnapped,” said Merlin. “I’ve got the data — they’ve taken her to Copenhagen. The jet is waiting for you when you get in; it’s the Christensen lot, and I’d say it was a random kidnapping rather than linked to Kingsman, except that the ransom note came here. It’s unlikely that they’ve assaulted her; that’s not their MO, but if a ransom is not paid by her family, then they will kill her.” Merlin’s pitch dropped. “We’ve been waiting for a solid fix on these men for months, Percival. I expect you and Lancelot to be thorough.” 

Coded: I expect you to kill all of them. Alistair’s blood was running cold — the gang were known for taking and killing the children of society families — heiresses and little princes. The subcutaneous tracker that Roxy had been implanted with during her last vaccinations must be doing its job, or Merlin would be much more panicked. 

“Thank you for giving me this one,” he said, swallowing down on a hard knot of hatred that was rising in his throat. 

“I wouldn’t even try to stop you,” said Merlin, as the bullet train slowed for the station. “All right, go get her.” 

James was waiting in the plane for him. He tugged Alistair into a hug, and murmured, “It’ll be all right, old chap. We’ll get her.” 

This was why Kingsman agents didn’t have families, Alistair considered gloomily, as he and James pored over building plans and formed an avenue of attack. Copenhagen had a surprising number of canals, and James was all for approaching by boat; Alistair preferred the land approach. Eventually, they agreed to split — cover from both sides — sharing a car into town. Percival dropped Lancelot at one of the small docks on the edge of the canals, and then backed up to enter the building on the other side. 

“Hej,” he said, walking up to the guards. “Taler du Englesk?” 

His Danish wasn’t particularly good. The guards clearly took pity on him. 

“Nyhaven is that way,” said one of them. 

“I’m in the right place,” said Percival. “I’m here to see the Christensen brothers.” 

“You don’t want to do that, my friend,” said the guard, feigning politeness. 

“Ah,” said Percival, “but it would seem that they have kidnapped someone to whom I am very attached, and I’m here to collect her.” 

“You have the ransom?” 

“Certainly,” he replied, and then shot them both with his watch. They crumpled. “But I have no intention of paying it.” 

He pushed through the doors, following the map projected onto the left lens of his glasses — Merlin had calculated the most likely location of the kidnappers, based on Roxy’s tracker and the electricity usage within the building. Bless the Scandinavians and their technology; Percival drew his gun, climbing the stairs swiftly, silent as a cat. 

He knew he was in the right place when he rounded the corner and saw a guard, shooting before the man could even reach for his radio. The silenced shot was still loud in the echoey stairwell, and he waited, flat against the wall by the door, and shot the guard who came out to check, too. 

“…The _fuck_ is going on?” he heard from inside the room, and he rounded the door. 

Roxy was tied to a chair, but seemed unharmed. And there were Tomas and Michael Christensen — what a delight. 

“The fuck is going on,” said Percival, “is that you kidnapped the wrong person.” 

Roxy looked up at him and her expression was like sunshine after rain. “You came to get me,” she said, delightedly. “I knew you would.” 

“I’ll always come and get you,” he said, smiling back. “Did they hurt you?” 

“They keep knocking me out. I don’t want to get post-concussion syndrome.” 

“Oh dear,” he said, as the two crime lords pulled guns. “Darling, if it’s all the same, I think you should close your eyes.” 

Tomas Christensen’s head practically exploded when Lancelot fired on him from the window; Percival used the distraction to fire on his brother, but Michael had already bolted. He knew that Lancelot would have things in hand, and instead ran for Roxy, untying her.

“Can I open my eyes now?” she asked. 

“Not yet,” he said, kissing the top of her head, wrapping her in his arms. She hugged him back. “I was so worried.” He didn’t bother asking if she could walk — he didn’t want her doing anything unnecessary if she had a head injury — so he picked her up, trusting Lancelot to shoot what needed to be shot. 

“As touching as this reunion is,” said Merlin, in his ear, “you’ve got men coming up the stairs. You’re going to have to get out by boat; Lancelot has just shot Michael Christensen, but the guards don’t know that.” 

“Escape routes?” 

“There’s a window and an twenty-foot drop into the canal. The depth will be all right for you to make the jump. Left window, get a decent run at it and you’ll go through like a hot knife into butter.” 

“Done.” 

He knew Roxy didn’t like heights, but there wasn’t really anything he could do — he bolted for the window, let his shoulder take the glass, and then dropped into thin air. In his arms, Roxy made a high, frightened sound, and he held her as tightly as he could. 

“It’ll be okay,” he managed to whisper, before they hit the freezing water. They surfaced quickly, in time to see Lancelot bolt out of the back of the building and down the short dock. He threw a rope to Percival, and together they heaved Roxy on board, Lancelot providing covering fire when the guards worked out where they’d gone. He roared away as soon as they were in the boat. 

In Percival’s arms, Roxy was taking gasping breaths. 

“Open your eyes,” he said. “We’re all right.” 

“I can’t believe you came for me,” she said. 

The wind bit through his soaked clothes; he shivered, and looked up when James shrugged off his jacket and handed it over. 

“For Roxy,” he said. “Though we need to get you both warm sooner rather than later.” 

It was all a little anticlimactic — a car from Station DK picked them up, and took them back out to the airport, where James and their pilot, Roger, dealt with all the departure details and Alistair simply sat with Roxy, monitoring her as she drifted in and out of consciousness. 

“She’ll be all right,” said Merlin, in his ear. 

“It’s terrifying,” he replied. 

“I know. She’ll be all right.” 

James gave him a knowing look when he returned. “Of course you haven’t done anything sensible like getting warm, darlings,” he said. “Strip down, get changed. Then we’ll put you into bed and hope you warm up.” 

The plane had fold-out beds, enough for five agents to pass out in peace and privacy on the way back from a rough mission. Alistair could see the sense in it; he reluctantly got up, and rummaged in the small valise he’d brought in case of an extended stay. 

Roxy stayed where she was, blinking slowly. He hoped she wasn’t too hurt. 

“Roxanne,” said James, gently. “Look at me, darling. I want to track your pupil reaction time; see how badly they hit your poor head.” 

“Who are you?” she asked, staring at him. 

“I’m James. I work with Alistair.” 

“Do you know Galahad?” 

He laughed. “Yes, I do.” 

“And you’re a good person?” 

“I’m a very good person,” he said. “I helped your uncle save your life.” 

Alistair was so grateful to James that he could weep. Instead, he got out something warm and comfortable for Roxy to wear, ignoring his own soaked suit. 

“Here we are,” said Alistair, giving Roxy his spare tracksuit and Kingsman shirt. 

“Go get changed,” said James, gently. 

She vanished into the small bathroom — they hadn’t equipped the smaller planes with a shower, so this was the best they could do. 

“You take mine,” said James, digging through his own case and coming up trumps. 

“Thanks,” said Alistair, changing quickly, before Roxy got back out. He’d long ago lost his shame at being naked in front of a fellow agent, although there was something about James that made him a bit pinkly flushed. James set the bed up, steering Alistair into it, and then Roxy when she emerged. He tucked all the blankets on the plane over them, and then sat, keeping watch with something that looked a little like a fond smile, laptop resting on his knees. 

“I’ll get on with the paperwork,” he said. “Our flight’s still got at least an hour to go — you two get some rest before we get in.” 

“Thanks,” said Alistair. Roxy was already asleep. He held her close, and she stirred a little. 

“Uncle Alistair,” she murmured. 

“You’re safe,” he said, kissing her temple. “It’s just me and my friend James.” 

“You came to get me?” 

“Of course,” he said. 

“You sure you’re a tailor?” she asked, and then she fell asleep again, leaving James to beam at him like a lunatic. 

_____________

 

Thankfully, she didn’t remember much about Copenhagen, or if she did, she didn’t tell anyone. He’d thought she might want to leave him, since she’d been snatched on her way home, but she insisted on staying, telling him he’d have to try harder if he wanted her gone. 

It was lovely to come home from a mission and see the lights on, the house warm and welcoming, supper waiting for him. Roxy would curl in to him when he collapsed onto the sofa, tucking herself under his arm and explaining all about the languages courses she was doing — her German was excellent, her French even better. She was thinking of going into International Relations; she had her sights on a job with the UN, or perhaps MI6. She wanted to do her Master’s first, or possibly transition straight into a PhD; it seemed to change weekly. 

Alistair would hug her close, and breathe in the clean smell of her, and let go of the tension of the mission. 

“Are you a spy?” she asked, once, when they’d drunk three bottles of champagne between them. 

“That’s classified,” he replied, and they both started giggling, collapsing into each other, and Alistair wondered how he’d ever got on without this woman in his life. 

 

_____________

 

Alistair had been determined not to turn into the caricature of the gun-wielding older man, protecting the virtue of his girl, but some days he was really, really tested. At nineteen, Roxy had the most disastrous run of boyfriend luck that he’d seen since his own early twenties, culminating in one particular young man cheating on her and then claiming it was because she wasn’t feminine enough. 

“He’s an arse,” she raged. “He’s a complete arse, and I should just bring one of your friends as my date to the next thing, just so he thinks I have a sugar daddy with whom he can never, ever, ever compete.” 

“Keep talking like that and I’ll make sure it’s James,” said Alistair, and Roxy looked at him, screwed up her face, and then half-laughing, half-crying, collapsed into his arms. 

“Come on, you could at least give me Galahad,” she said. “He’s daddy as.” 

“Wash your mouth out with soap, Roxanne,” he said, and she collapsed into sad laughter again. 

He supposed that she had only ever met Galahad in ridiculous situations, all of which involved him looking sharp in a tuxedo, and none of which plumbed the true depths of his somewhat idiosyncratic personality. He rubbed her back. 

“How about we go out to dinner, instead of being miserable here,” he said. “I’ll invite Galahad, if you like.” 

“Oh god, no,” she said. “He’ll do something like threaten to cut off Tim’s balls and make him eat them.” Ah, so perhaps she _had_ got a handle on the more disturbing aspects of Galahad’s personality. “Maybe James could join us?” 

“James?” 

She shrugged. “You like spending time with James, and he’ll have at least one dreadful story that’ll take my mind off things. He’s fairly prone to doing dreadful things.” 

“You want dreadful stories, I can give you dreadful stories,” he said. 

“Tell me about the first time you got your heart properly broken,” she replied. 

“You don’t want to hear that,” he said. 

“I do.” She sniffed. “It’ll make me feel better.” 

“All right,” he said. “I was seventeen, and his name was Robert, and he was the most amazing boy I’d ever met…” 

_____________

 

James invited them for dinner, when Alistair called. He seemed to enjoy entertaining — he occasionally held private dinner parties for the mews residents plus Merlin: James, Alistair, Roxy and Harry. Bors or Tristian, if they were in the country. Never Arthur or Bedevire. It was sort of the polite version of a block party — on one hand, dreadful security, but on the other hand, anyone who got past that many Kingsman agents probably deserved to win. 

James never explained his choice of guest list, but Alistair privately thought that he was a little enamoured with his self-image as a gentleman spy, and part of that included entertaining. Roxy had been on the list since the Copenhagen rescue, and she was a welcome addition, as far as Alistair was concerned — Roxy’s presence meant no discussion of missions or mission-related detail, which meant for a far more pleasant evening. He did hope he didn’t look too soppy mooning over James, though. He supposed James had the being a sex god bit of being the gentleman spy down, even if his cooking left something to be desired.

It turned out that James was a brilliant choice of companion to ease a shattered heart; he didn’t only tell stories, he pulled out a deck of cards, taught Roxy to cheat at blackjack, and then kept eating the smarties that they were using as bank; Roxy won on her own merits, and not because James had eaten his fortune, but she teased him about it anyway. He made a great show of presenting her with the remaining bank in a glass jar, kissing her hand and then Alistair’s for good measure, which made Alistair grateful for the forgiving light in James’s flat, which hid the flush in his cheeks from the knowing eyes of his niece and his best friend. 

“Thanks,” he said, as they left. 

James squeezed his shoulder. “I’m right here, whenever you want me,” he said. “Just call.” 

_____________

 

Alistair had forgotten about Tim-the-heartbreaker until he was undercover at a gala dinner for the Royal Ballet, and the stupid little bastard showed up. Here he was, trying to prevent the release of a genetically modified ebola strain into the social event of the month, and it was being disrupted by Roxy’s awful ex. He’d taken Roxy with him as cover (and because once she’d found out where he was going, he hadn’t been able to say she couldn’t come), Lancelot and Galahad as backup, and Amelia from Station B was ready to grab Roxy if any trouble should arise. Alistair didn’t think it would, but something in him quailed a little anyway at the thought of Roxy getting hurt. 

And then there was Tim, bursting through the crowd and creating a scene at their table. On one hand, excellent, because Lancelot or Galahad would take over the pickup of the biological agent and Percival could keep an eye on Roxy. On the other hand, Roxy had gone still and furious, and Alistair would do anything to preserve her from heartache. 

“Roxy Morton,” the boy said, without preamble. “I didn’t know you had the culture to appreciate ballet.” 

“Oh, hello,” said Roxy, looking at him as if he were a flea. “I’m sorry; did you want something? Because I seem to recall us parting on bad terms.” She turned to Alistair. “This is Tim.”

Alistair nodded, sipping his wine. “Is he bothering you?” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Galahad slipping out through a door marked _Authorised Personnel Only._

“Is this your sugar daddy?” asked Tim, putting a hand on her arm. 

“This is my actual daddy,” she said, crisply. “I suggest you apologise, or you might not be happy.” 

Her _actual_ daddy. He felt his heart constrict a little with delight and affection. 

“Is there a problem?” Alistair asked. “Darling, is this the boy you told me about?”

“Yes,” she said, still glaring at him. 

“Ah,” he said. “Then, young man, I’ll ask you to get your hands off my daughter before I remove them. And when I say remove, I mean _remove_.” He probably wouldn’t. He wasn’t Galahad. But the temptation was there.

“Percival, if you maim him, it will cause quite a stir,” murmured Merlin, through the glasses feed. “Lancelot found the contained virus; it was in the kitchens, still unused. He’s passed it on to Galahad. Both of them were potentially spotted — if you can, find a way to get into the cameras and wipe any stored footage, please.” 

Percival gave the usual tap-tap acknowledgement, and turned to take in the thunderous face of young Tim. 

It was then that James joined them. He flitted across the room, and Alistair absolutely did not find him entrancing, even as he slid in next to Alistair with a wink and a nudge. 

“Hi, Percival, Roxy. Hello Timbo,” he said, smiling charmingly at the young man. “I didn’t realise that we had friends in common.” 

“U-uncle James,” said Tim. “You know Roxy and her dad?” 

“I adore Roxy and her dad,” said James, lazily. “Roxanne, you are the belle of this ball. No-one could possibly be prettier than you, and if my nephew is bothering you because of it, let me know.” 

“Your nephew is my ex,” said Roxy, not looking up. 

“Ah,” said James, knowingly. “Timothy, a gentleman knows when he is not wanted. Say hello to your mother for me, won’t you?” 

It was, Alistair had to admit as the hapless Tim slunk off, fairly masterful. Rude as hell, polite as sin. He smiled at them both. 

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said. “Why don’t you two order more wine?” 

“Why don’t we dance, Roxy-love?” asked James. “I said I’d teach you to waltz…” 

Shaking his head, he left them. It wasn’t a challenge to break into the secure office — apparently there were people running all over, trying to work out where the vials of “secret ingredient” had got to, and no-one was watching the storage where the camera feeds were saved. Merlin collaborated with him through hacking the system, and then he set the fire alarms on, trusting James to get Roxy out. The alarms began as a disembodied voice advising that the system was operating, but quickly built to a crescendo of whooping, the sprinkler system hissing into life. 

He hadn’t counted on Roxy trying to get back in to find him, though; when he hoofed it out the front door, she was struggling with James, who was holding onto her as she tried to wrench free. 

“Let me go, he’s still in there, he’s still—“ She was pink-cheeked and clearly not above using her nails to try to break free. 

“Roxy!” he called, taking the stairs two at a time, and it was only then that James let her go. She bolted for his arms. 

“You do everything you needed to do?” asked James, over her head. 

“Yes,” said Percival, hugging Roxy as tightly as she was hugging him. “Rather exciting, isn’t it? Would you like to come back to ours for a drink?” 

“Love to, if I’m not needed elsewhere.” 

“You’re not,” said Merlin. “Good job, both of you. I’m signing off.” 

“You’re needed to come and have a drink,” said Alistair, firmly. “Did you have a decent dance, at least?” 

They shared a cab back home, and Roxy begged off the drink — she was wet from the sprinklers, and yes she’d had a lovely night, but now she just wanted to go and have a shower and get to bed. Which Alistair would have believed, had she not caught James’s eye and winked. What were they up to? He sighed, and got the scotch; James was an incorrigible scotch-lover, going so far as to be able to quickly discern the difference between years, not just brands. 

He felt rather than heard someone coming up behind him, and he turned to see James, bowtie undone and loose around his neck, inscrutable expression on his face. 

“Hello, Alistair,” James said, quietly. 

“Hello, James,” said Alistair. “So you want to tell me why you and Roxy are winking at each other?” 

James leaned in and kissed him — just a soft kiss, just enough that if Alistair wanted to, he could step away, and they’d never speak of this. 

“Your little girl is a rather superb matchmaker,” he said, and kissed Alistair again. “I didn’t think you were interested in anyone, but turns out you’re just the model of British repression.” 

“What did she tell you?” asked Alistair, letting his hand slide up James’s arm, feeling the heat under his palm. 

“That you told her the rather tragic tale of your first boyfriend, when she and Tim broke up,” said James. “And that you dropped enough hints about a current unrequited love that she could work it out.” 

“Ah, unrequited love,” said Alistair. 

“Not if you don’t want it to be,” said James, tracing his fingertips along Alistair’s cheek. “You aren’t the only queer fish in the service, you know.” 

Alistair turned in to James’s fingers. “I don’t want it to be unrequited,” he said. “I want you to want me.” 

“Then I’ve got good news for you, darling,” said James, capturing him in a lewd, perfect kiss. 

____________

 

The next time Alistair heard from Roxy’s parents, they’d up and sold their properties in England, buying up a huge estate in the Caribbean, and that seemed to be that. She went to visit, but came back so despondent that even James couldn’t cheer her up. He got the impression, over the years, that Roxy’s parents just sort of ceased to care for her in any tangible way. Oh, they still helped to pay her way through university, and all the other trappings of a privileged life, in the way that one might set and forget a monthly charitable donation. He never really knew what to ask, or what to say, to make it hurt less. 

“It’s all very beautiful, but it’s soulless,” she said, when pressed about her visit. “And I suppose — I love my parents. But I don’t know them.” 

“The Caribbean isn’t soulless,” said James. “It just means that you didn’t go to the right spots.” He leaned over Alistair to get at the last of their shared meal, a warm slice of garlic bread. “Next time you go, bring me, and I guarantee you an excellent time.” 

“Now then,” said Roxy. “I don’t want to make Uncle Alistair jealous.” 

“Oh, we’ll bring him, too; I know a place where you can get the most delightful rum cocktails right on the beach.” 

And to some extent, he was right — Kingston with James was a different place. Clara invited them for a beachside Christmas, and James somehow contrived to get a mission in Florida on December 23rd (Alistair thought that Merlin might have had a hand in it), and so he showed up at the Morton’s estate on Boxing Day, gifts in hand, charm offensive on. He then stole Alistair and Roxy every night for a week of drinking dirty rum cocktails in beachside and backstreet bars, dancing and laughing, all three of them sharing New Years wishes under a bright, broad sky. They had to go back on January 2nd; Alistair didn’t think Clara would be sorry to see them go, from the sharpness to her gaze and her pursed lips. 

“You’ve done so well with our Roxanne,” she said, to his surprise. “But do you think it’s wise, letting her around that James?” 

“James adores her.” 

“That’s just what I’m saying,” said Clara, and Alistair nearly laughed at her misapprehension. “I don’t think he slept in his room all the nights he was here.” 

“Because he was in my room, Clare,” said Alistair, bending to kiss her cheek. “We’ll see you at Easter.” 

Was it bad that he rather enjoyed her shocked look? Because he rather enjoyed her shocked look. 

No invitation for Easter was forthcoming, so the three of them went to Switzerland and ate chocolate until they felt horrifically ill. Alistair had told Roxy over and over that the cancellation of the invitation was his fault, not hers — until she put a hand over his, right when he was in the middle of eating an enormous gold bunny with no dignity whatsoever. 

“If you’re not invited, especially if you’re not invited because of James, I won’t accept an invitation,” she said. “You’ve done more to raise me than they ever did, and I love you, and I love James, and that’s final.” 

“Marvellous Roxy,” James murmured, and Alistair embraced her; her parents may not particularly care, but he did, oh, he definitely did. 

_____________

Life was perfect, until it wasn’t. 

_____________

When he was young, Alistair had foolishly thought himself immune to emotion. Bors dropped him home after the news about James came through, and then went out to buy drinks for the unofficial wake, Alistair promising he could make it back in on his own. He needed to tell Roxy in private, somewhere where they could both grieve, before putting on his public face and pretending that he wasn’t breaking apart inside. 

She had her study things sprawled out on the kitchen table, writing a paper, when he staggered in. 

“Hullo,” she said, not looking up. “Tea? I’ve just done a pot of that earl grey you like.” 

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Just took her in, pen in her mouth, face lit with the blue-ish glow of her laptop, frowning at something on the screen before jotting quickly on the notepad next to her right hand. 

“Uncle Alistair?” she asked, looking up. Something in him must have looked wrecked, because she was on her feet in an instant. “What’s happened? Are you all right? Did something—“ 

“James is dead,” he said, like a confession, and she covered her mouth with her hand. 

“Oh no,” she said. “No, no, no…” 

“I’m sorry,” he replied, the tears welling again. “I’m sorry, Roxy, I’m sorry—“ 

She enveloped him in her arms. “Alistair.” And it wasn’t Alistair comforting Roxy, it was Roxy holding him as the incredible grief and horror hit him. She rocked him against her, and she was crying too, both of them sinking to the floor. It was some time before he could breathe again; she was running her hand over his back, and they were both sniffing. 

“What happened?” asked Roxy, eventually. 

“Work accident,” said Alistair. “He was —“ He couldn’t say it. “There was.” He sniffed. “Ask Galahad. Or Merlin.” He fished out a hanky, wiping his face, and then fished out a second hanky and wiped hers. 

“Are we going to see them? God, they must be devastated.” 

“Yes. We’re having a bit of — you know the lads. They don’t have anyone at home to debrief with.” He smiled at her. “I’m so, so lucky to have you. So was James.” 

She smiled back at him through her tears. “And we were lucky to have him,” she said. “I’m just going to wash my face; what time do we need to go?” 

He checked his watch. “Soon,” he said. 

“Come on,” she said. “You come and wash up too.” 

She deserved to come to James’s unofficial wake, and anyone who wanted to question him could be damned. She chose a tie for him, and she was elegant in a black dress, taking his arm, though he wasn’t certain if she was holding him up, or he was holding her. Dagonet gave his condolences as they entered the shop, and it was stupid, wasn’t it, completely stupid, because now that he’d shown her this, there was so much he’d have to tell her, or he’d have to wipe her memory. She didn’t seem to mind at the sudden strangeness of Kingsman. She sat beside him on the way in, and then walked beside him, regal as any queen. 

There were a lot of people in the ballroom at the mansion; agents and techs, mostly, but Alistair spotted some of the drivers, and the mechanics who’d kept James’s beloved Aston Martin on the road. Galahad was there; he practically mainlined neat scotch, clearly trying to kill his liver before it staged an uprising against such ill treatment. 

“When did your niece start coming to Kingsman events?” asked Merlin, removing Galahad’s fifth drink (well, the fifth that Alistair had seen) from his hand and draining it. 

“Since she loved James as much as any of us,” said Alistair, and Galahad put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Perhaps not as much as you,” he said. “So you know, we’re going back to Merlin’s quarters after this to continue the drinking.” 

Roxy was speaking with Bors and Ector, both of whom had that devastated expression that was on the face of everyone who knew exactly what had happened to James. She was on her third glass of champagne; he’d have to keep an eye on that. It was too tempting to lose yourself in drink when these things happened, when men could be cut into — Alistair swayed a little, and Galahad caught his elbow. 

“Come on. Sit down. Roxy looks all right over there, as long as we keep her clear of Chester.” 

“I don’t—“ said Alistair. He shook his head slightly. “She’s spotted us. She’s coming this way.” 

Roxy was making her way through the crowd, and both men turned to greet her. 

“Galahad,” she said, and he hugged her, politely kissing her cheek. “It’s good to see you.” 

“Likewise,” he said. “Come and give me a hand with your uncle.” 

“He’s fine,” she replied, but sat next to him anyway. “It’s all just been rather a shock.” 

“It has, hasn’t it,” said Galahad. “How are you taking it?” 

“I —“ she said. “I don’t think it’s sunk in.” 

“Ah,” said Galahad. “I think most of us could say that.” He paused, and looked at her appraisingly. “How’s university?” 

She frowned, but went with it. “I’m trying to decide if I should keep on and do my master’s, or get out there into the world,” she said. 

“The world, definitely.” 

She smiled. “That’s what James said.” 

“Then maybe you should do it,” said Galahad.

“Don’t even think about it, Harry,” said Alistair, because he knew Harry Hart, and he knew what these questions were leading to. 

“Think about what, Alistair?” asked Harry. 

“Recruitment.” 

“And that’s enough,” said Merlin’s voice, from behind Alistair. “Roxanne has a one-day pass, not a licence to hear all our business.” Unspoken — they’d probably tap Roxy with an amnesia dart the next morning. She’d remember going to a wake, but not what happened there. A knife chimed against a glass somewhere across the room, and Galahad scowled. 

“Speeches.” 

In some ways, it was a welcome break from scrutiny about his nomination for James’s replacement, but the speeches were bittersweet, and sat in Alistair’s heart like all of this would never, ever go away. Roxy seemed to understand. She threaded her fingers through his, and leaned on his shoulder, not saying anything even when he started to quietly, discreetly, cry. 

_________________

 

They did end up back in Merlin’s flat after six hours; Merlin had pulled himself off the clock, concerned his judgement may be temporarily compromised, and he’d pulled five of the knights, too — Percival, Galahad, Bors, Tristan, and Gawain. All friends of James’s — all men with a shared past. They’d brought Roxy with them, too, but she’d drowned herself in champagne earlier in the evening, like most of the rest of them; she wasn’t used to it, though, so she fell asleep on one of the futons sometime around midnight, her head in Alistair’s lap. Merlin’s futon collection had the practical function of serving as a temporary crash space for any of the senior knights coming off a long mission but unwilling to go home alone — if Merlin minded them intruding, he never said it. 

Alistair wondered if Merlin ever got lonely, living on site, with no-one but himself and his computers. But that was a stupid question — it was like considering if Alistair himself ever got lonely prior to Roxy. He didn’t remember being lonely. He was also staying awake into a hangover, last night’s drinks souring in the back of his throat as he realised that James was well and truly gone, properly gone. 

Eventually, everyone else left or crashed out — Alistair was drifting in and out, head tipped right back against the back of the sofa, feet on the coffee table, Roxy in his lap. He was certainly the only one awake when Galahad snuck out of Merlin’s room the next morning; Alistair was sure that Galahad and Merlin weren’t like he and James had been, so potentially Merlin had merely wrangled Galahad into sleeping in there to ensure he didn’t a) drink himself to death or b) go and pick a fight somewhere and wind up with a murder conviction. 

“Harry?” he asked, blearily. 

“Ah,” Galahad said. “Something’s come up.” 

“What?” asked Alistair. 

“Lee Unwin’s son has contacted the shop, requesting a favour.” 

“Goodness.” He rubbed his eyes, blinking. “Are you certain?” 

“What do you think Chester will do if I make him my nomination?” 

Despite himself, Alistair smiled. “Do. I think James would have appreciated it.” 

“I think he’d rather have liked your girl to take on the mantle of Lancelot. Keep it in the family,” Galahad replied. “I know you’re not keen, but do think about it. At least if she passes the first few tests, she’ll attain the security clearance, and we’ll be able to keep her on in technical at least, or in the shop. You’d be able to tell her almost everything. Give her the choice; she’s not a fool, she must know some of it.” 

“She’s waking,” said Alistair, feeling her shift. She stretched in place, opening her eyes. 

“Oh god,” she said. “I feel like death warmed over.” 

“Get Merlin to give you some of his experimental hangover cure. Works a treat,” said Galahad, which explained a lot about his current cheerfulness. “Won’t get rid of all of it, but will help with the headache.”

“I’m not a pharmacy, get your own,” said Merlin, from somewhere in the flat. He stomped out, and Roxy sat up. 

“Did we fall asleep in your flat?” she asked. 

“You did indeed, lass.” 

Galahad winked. “All right, I’m off. Don’t you let Percival wallow, all right?” 

They said their farewells to Galahad, and Alistair bit the bullet. He’d known that one day one of his friends would die, and he’d have to weigh up the options. Perhaps that’s why he’d taken her travelling, insisted she keep up with her shooting, indulged her when she wanted to learn hand-to-hand combat. Perhaps that’s why he’d let her into his life so thoroughly, like a flowering vine growing through the cracks and crannies of an old building. 

Merlin went into the kitchen. “I assume you want breakfast?” he called. 

“Yes, thank you,” said Alistair. 

He’d only stayed here a few times post-mission, but his memory was that Merlin made excellent breakfasts. Roxy yawned. 

“Thank you, Merlin,” she added, and got a wordless grumble and a clank of pots in reply. 

Alistair felt his stomach clench, just a little. “Before breakfast,” he said. “I think we should talk.”

“Is it about James?” she asked, pressing her hand into his. “Because I already know, you know.” 

“Sort of,” he said. “It’s bigger than just James, though.” 

Merlin clattered around in the kitchen as Alistair led her to the breakfast table. She didn’t let go of his hand until he began to set out the plates and cutlery, and then she helped, sitting next to him once they were done. 

“So what did you want to tell me?” she asked.

“Have you worked out what I do for a living?” he asked. 

“I have some idea,” she replied. “You’re a spy. Or a mercenary. The trips…the injuries. The nicknames. Galahad and Merlin and Lancelot — they’re not normal people.”

“No,” he said. “They’re really not.” 

Even though they were in someone else’s flat, it felt like the world had narrowed down to the two of them. The candle in the middle of the table was cold this morning, but sometime last night it had spilled over the side, a great lake of wax dripping and rolling down its smooth face and onto the cloth underneath. 

“Why did you take care of me?” she asked. “To start with. I mean — I have to have been a hinderance.” 

“I didn’t realise how much I needed my family until I got to know you,” he said. “Besides, you’re not a hinderance. Why did you insist on living with a sad old man who couldn’t even tell you what he does for a living?”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t bear to go anywhere else,” she said. “Do you have to kill me now that I’ve told you I know you’re a spy?” 

“No,” he said. “But — would you? I mean. Would you like to do it too? Work with me.” 

“Oh yes,” she said. 

“It’s dangerous. Very dangerous.” 

She shifted. “I know; I’ve seen you come home banged up. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what happened to James. I still want to do it.” 

“Quite.” He didn’t know what to say for a few seconds, and he was paralysed by the thought of her in danger. 

He turned, and saw Merlin standing in the doorway, watching them both. “Breakfast’s a few minutes away,” he said, the rich smell of both bacon _and_ pancakes flitting in from the small kitchen. “Best to take these tablets now, so you keep it down when you get into it.” He moved to Roxy’s side, and plinked two small capsules in front of each of them. “Alistair, I’ll support your nomination, if that’s what you choose to do. I’ll even help you explain things. But I won’t make the offer; that’s down to you.” He sat, as Alistair obediently took the tablets, Roxy following suit. “I won’t support a nomination from anyone but you, either.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Roxy. 

Merlin shook his head. “It’s got to come from him, lass.” 

“Uncle Alistair,” she said. “Say it.” 

He took in a deep breath. “James’s death opens up a position in the ranks of our organisation,” he said. “Let me tell you about Kingsman.”


End file.
